I went to sleep late again, last night. I have no real reason or excuse for it. It’s just something I do. I’m self destructive like that. If my work day doesn’t consists of a set of glowing red eyes in my sleepless head, I’m not content. Plus, I feel like once you go to sleep, you’re basically teleporting yourself back to the stressful landscape of the working environment. It sucks so much. I try to keep my free days alive for as long as possible because once they die, I’m back in the boiler room trying to avoid the impending death that the monster is trying to bestow upon me. The monster is work.

I actually envy people who enjoy their jobs—even those that work alongside me in the same meaningless trade I get paid for. But I think something is wrong with me. That part of the brain that allows people to just shut their mind off and go into autopilot has malfunctioned or something. I can see when my coworkers reach that state—the “workers trance.” Their eyes glaze over and their breathing stabilizes to a subtle almost undetectable pattern. They become the task they’re performing. It’s almost like they become a Sage of some sort, casting an eight hour incantation, using their souls as the resource they power it with. It’s amazing and I hate that I can’t do it.

Right now I’m supposed to be packing boxes. I’m supposed to be filling them with the bullshit my company produces and prepping them for shipment to Hookares, Buttsylvania. I’ve been doing it for just over four hours, but my mind still refuses to enter the “workers trance.” Instead I’m fully conscious of every sound the box makes when the ridges of my fingers slide across the surface, skidding like leather tires against dried bamboo paper. My brain continues to record each moment I’m forced to stretch the tape Gun from one side of a box to the other. I just can’t enter go numb to it all.

So, in all of my self awareness, I’m procrastinating. I’m taking my time between boxes to practice the old art form of “bullshitting.” I’m staring into space, a lot. I’m doodling on shipping documents. I went to urinate a while ago and to spice things up and kill time I pulled my balls and penis out together while standing at the urinal. For those that are unaware of the modus operandi of male urination, testicles are absolutely unnecessary to achieve the goal of liquid evacuation. The exposed balls were simply for my own pleasure.

I’m looking forward to sprinkling more unnecessary augmentations on my tasks today. I doubt if I’ll ever learn to enter the “workers trance,” so I’ll make do with my new style of “task manipulation.” Next time I might wash my feet alongside my hands after peeing. I don’t know. I’m playing this by ear.


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